


too good to be good for me

by Damaris (bisexuallaurel)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No sex but definitely some making out, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, and a lot of Feelings, and tenderness, or rather Aziraphale trying to say nice things and Crowley not letting him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexuallaurel/pseuds/Damaris
Summary: If anyone were to imply that Crowley is, in fact, a good person beneath it all, well, he wouldn’t take too kindly to that. A demon has his pride, you know.That’s why it’s so annoying and honestly quite infuriating that, after the Apocawasn’t, Aziraphale has taken to the habit of calling Crowley…. things. To his face.Really, he should be ashamed of himself, saying such filthy things to a demon..  .  .Or, the one where Aziraphale and Crowley go on holiday together after the Not-Apocalypse, Feelings™ are expressed and Crowley gets overwhelmed by Aziraphale's tenderness.





	too good to be good for me

It must be said that Crowley is, quite frankly, a terrible demon.

He’s petty, self-serving and fond of causing both minor and major inconveniences in the lives of humans.

He happily engages in many a sin, pride and sloth being two of his favourites, and enjoys encouraging the same in everyone around him.

His favourite pastime is putting the fear of, well, Crowley into his plants and coming up with various strategies for doing so; shouting, quietly threatening to rip misbehaving leaves off its plant body, and sometimes just sitting backwards on a chair in front of his plants, entirely silent and just... watching them. Making sure they know he's there and any sort of punishment may follow if they do not behave. After screaming at them, the silent treatment is definitely his favourite because it puts them on edge for a longer period of time and stops them from slacking off.

These are, all in all, pretty good characteristics in a demon. Things could be better, of course, like if his favourite hobby was actually torturing people or starting wars, but his interests as they were are at the very least not directly unbecoming of a demon.

But he also goes out of his way to save wounded animals by the side of the road, he cares for his Bentley like one would a baby[1]  and on more than one occasion he’s been known to literally help old ladies cross the street unscathed. These are, as it were, not very good characteristics when you’re in the business of demonhood.

Over the centuries he’s gotten quite good at keeping the Head Office off his back by causing a traffic jam or two for every stray kitten he has rescued, although his fellow demons would certainly prefer a… larger scale for his demonic interventions and perhaps most importantly, fewer (and this is said with a whisper amongst the other demons) _good deeds_.

Of course, it helps that he’s very quick to take credit for human-made disasters that tend to be larger in scale than his own initiatives and thus more pleasing to his superiors. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s quite good at _acting_ like he’s a very competent demon, even though his actual track record tells a different story. Confidence is everything, after all, and a good “fake it til you make it” attitude can fool even the meanest of demons, in Crowley’s experience.

As long as he keeps puttering about, tempting humans to a day off work here or a road rage driven tantrum there, and taking credit for a bloody war or two when the opportunity presents itself[2], they leave him be, albeit with a vague sense of disappointment that he isn’t doing more.

The Arrangement played a big part in this, of course, and gave Crowley an excuse to perform his little (stage whisper) _good deeds_ without feeling too badly about it because he _is_ doing the work of both a demon and an angel, after all, and so what if he sometimes takes more pleasure in the angelic deeds than the demonic? No one would ever be the wiser so it didn’t matter.

He also takes great joy in the knowledge that for every good deed he performs, his angelic counterpart is out there somewhere giving in to his dark side[3] and performing little demonic miracles.

Part of the Arrangement was that neither of them could be expected to do anything too out of the ordinary, like saving a whole building from burning down or setting that building on fire to begin with, which is definitely for the best because neither of them could stomach to do that kind of work for the other side.

This meant that Crowley could be safe in the knowledge that his counterpart was just out there performing petty little miracles like locking people’s car keys into their vehicles or making the sidewalk just uneven enough to encourage people to trip on it, and knowing that always puts a smile on Crowley’s face. A wicked smile, of course.

For centuries, this strategy worked fine and meant that they both saved a lot of time and travel expenses, not that that was _really_ an issue for beings such as themselves, but Crowley could never resist a good deal no matter the context.

A minor miracle for the betterment of the world, a couple of inconveniences and annoying fashion trends scattered here and there, and voilá! He could spend the rest of his time doing whatever he damn pleased, which was more often than not taking long drives in his Bentley, yelling at his plants and getting shitfaced on his own or (preferably) with his angelic counterpart.

He’s not entirely sure when things started to go downhill, so to speak, but he has a sneaking suspicion it was as early as that fateful day in the Garden of Eden when he sidled up to an angel who confided in him about a sword given away in spite of heavenly orders to do otherwise.

If pressed, he would never admit that his affections had grown so quickly. Actually, he wouldn’t admit to harbouring any feelings whatsoever towards anything or anyone, except possibly his Bentley, but definitely not towards a certain angel. Towards any angel at all, really, but especially not that one.

Nonetheless, the fact of the matter remained: that day in Eden, Crowley’s chest had cracked open and the warmth from Aziraphale’s smile had swirled itself around his charred heart and slowly started to help it mend.

When they were apart, the damage started to spread again. He leaned harder into his demonic instincts, tried harder to please his superiors. Then they ran into each other again and the light came flooding back in, pulsing harder with each of Aziraphale’s smiles.

Crowley never trusted anyone after his Fall.

If the Almighty, whose love was supposed to transcend space and time, could turn Her back on him, surely there was no stopping anyone else from doing the same.

And still, despite all that, he almost immediately trusted the angel who saw him, talked with him, laughed with him, despite the divide between them that declared them enemies. The angel who sought comfort in him and offered his wing as shelter in return.

His angel. His Aziraphale.

It was actually embarrassing how quickly Crowley fell for him; how quickly he found himself relying on his new friend, how much he missed him when they spent time apart. And in the early days, there was a _lot_ of time spent apart and seeing him was much rarer than being on his own.

This, more than anything, was what made him perfect the art of waiting, and also the art of keeping a demonic balance that wasn't too dark for his own sanity but not too light as to earn the suspicions of his superiors.

For Crowley had never enjoyed cruelty. Sure, he's always enjoyed teasing, causing minor grievances and ‘stirring the pot’ as the humans like to say, and more than anything he likes to ask questions. Push boundaries. But he’s not cruel unless his hand is forced.

Perhaps that was why he was immediately drawn to this angelic creature who fretted and worried but still went with his own instincts, even if they went against the literal word of God.

Because as bad of a demon as Crowley is, Aziraphale is just as bad of an angel, and from the moment Aziraphale stretched out his wing to shelter Crowley from the first rain, something inside of Crowley shifted and was never the same again.

Because Aziraphale hates[4]when humans insist on trying to buy his books and he isn’t above using a miracle here and there to keep their pesky hands off his treasures.

He hates loud coffeeshops in his neighbourhood infringing on his quiet reading time and he’ll silently fume over it until he finally snaps and miracles the shop closed a few hours before closing time.

He hates witnessing street harassment (Crowley secretly hates it too) and he won’t stoop so low as to do anything about it himself, but he’ll put on a certain kind of pout that’ll have Crowley rolling his eyes and miracling a spike under the asshole’s car tire as soon as Aziraphale turns his back for a second.

Despite his quiet and loving demeanour, there’s a fire in Aziraphale that attracted Crowley immediately. An anger, a sense of justice that doesn’t always align with Her judgment. Crowley loves seeing glimpses of that spark.

But Aziraphale also holds a deep love for humanity and all of its little quirks that goes above and beyond just the basic level of angelic love that all angels hold for God’s creations.

Aziraphale adores doing things ‘the human way’ and will get giddy and excited when he’s presented with a particularly tasty looking meal or a good bottle of wine.

He’ll tut at Crowley when he drives too recklessly or chuckles at kids falling over in their heavy winter overalls, but he’ll also be the one to get himself into all sorts of trouble that he’s entirely capable of getting himself out of if he wasn’t just so bothered by getting his hands dirty. Figuratively speaking, although also perhaps a bit literally since he’s so particular about his nails.

There wasn’t any real reason for Crowley to be the one to miracle the bomb that killed those nazis threatening Aziraphale’s corporeal form over some dusty old books, but he knew that Aziraphale disliked causing harm and so Crowley did it for him.

That was a common occurrence for them. Aziraphale finding himself in a spot of trouble, dreading having to hurt humans just so he could avoid having to file all that silly paperwork for a new body, and Crowley ’rescuing’ him by doing the deed he was perfectly capable of doing himself.

It worked out for both of them, really. Aziraphale didn’t have to tap into that dangerous and lethal part of himself that he disliked so much, and if Crowley got to help his friend out at the same time as getting credit for some quite demonic miracling, well, that was just good business.

No, Crowley is certainly not a good demon. Or rather, he is actually a fairly good _person_ , and that rather clashes with his demonhood.

If anyone were to imply that Crowley is, in fact, a good person beneath it all, well, he wouldn’t take too kindly to that. A demon has his pride, you know.

That’s why it’s so annoying and honestly quite infuriating that, after the Apocawasn’t, Aziraphale has taken to the habit of calling Crowley…. _things_. To his _face_.

Really, he should be ashamed of himself, saying such filthy things to a demon.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says around a growl. He’s on his feet, just having returned with a fresh wine bottle from the back of Aziraphale’s bookshop. “Don’t.”

“What’s that, dear?” Aziraphale asks, glancing up at him from the crossword puzzle perched in his lap. He’s comfortably cozied up in his favourite armchair.

Crowley grits his teeth. He bloody well knows what.

“Don’t-“ Crowley starts, but doesn’t know how to continue. “Don’t say things like that,” he finishes tamely.

He pops off the cork with a lazy twist of his wrist and takes a few long swigs straight from the bottle. He wipes his mouth on his jacket sleeve and with great satisfaction takes note of Aziraphale’s disapprovingly twisted mouth.

“Come now, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs. “I merely said-“

Crowley shushes him. “For all that is unholy, don’t say it again.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “Well, if I can’t say that it was kind of you to bring me crepes from Paris, then what should I say?” He raises an eyebrow with more sass than an angel of Heaven should be able to exude. “How very demonic of you to tempt me to my favourite snack?”

“That’s better, I suppose,” Crowley drawls, but something in him lights up at Aziraphale being a little petty.

“Then thank you, dear Crowley, for-“

“Yeah, yeah, shut up.”

Crowley wipes the mouth of the bottle on a clean patch of jacket and hands it over to his friend, who takes it without tearing his eyes from his puzzle.

Crowley plops down on the couch, still a little surly, and spreads out as best he can, arm slung over the back of the couch and one leg hanging off the edge while the other stretches out along the length of the couch. Then he settles in to watch Aziraphale making his way across the crossword puzzle, the two of them sharing the bottle back and forth in amicable silence.

There’s a light right behind Aziraphale’s head that illuminates him and makes his blonde curls positively glow against the relative darkness of the rest of the shop. He looks very pretty, Crowley thinks to himself, and not for the first time he thanks Heaven, Hell or whomever is responsible for his thoughts being private property.[5]

“My dear,” Aziraphale says after a while, carefully folding his paper and putting it to the side.

Crowley’s head lolls a little so he can look at his friend more properly, his eyes as always concealed behind his glasses. “Yes, angel?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Aziraphale muses. “Perhaps we ought to take the weekend off.”

“Off from what?” Crowley snorts.

Everything after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t and the bodyswap has been volunteer work, more or less. For now they’re off the hook and don’t have to worry about temptations or thwarting.

Aziraphale glances at him. “Well, I’m not sure,” he admits. “But I think it could do us some good to get away for a bit. Don’t you think? Go- go sightseeing, or wine tasting in the countryside, or-“

“What brought this on?” Crowley asks, suspicion creeping up his neck.

Aziraphale ducks his head and Crowley steels himself.

“My dear,” he says softly, and Crowley shivers. “It’s been nice seeing you more now that we don’t have to worry about… you know. Our respective sides finding out about our, er, fraternizing.”

Crowley briefly closes his eyes behind his glasses. _Fraternizing_. He loathes that word. Ever since Aziraphale first uttered it he’s been trying to figure out what it means. Acquaintances, friends… more?

He shivers again. That doesn’t bear thinking about, after all. There is no future for that sort of thinking.

“What’s your point, angel?”

Aziraphale shrugs a little, then smiles. “We’ve never had a real vacation, have we? Together, that is. I thought it would be nice to spend some more time together now that we’re not at constant risk of smiting.” His smile falters a little. “Unless that, er, is not something you would like.”

Crowley takes a second to squash down the instinct that urges him to do and say anything to get that smile back on his angel’s face. Instead he shrugs in what he hopes comes across as a casual and lazy gesture and says, “Wouldn’t mind a vacation. Sloth and gluttony pair well together, I’ve always thought.”

He pretends not to notice the way Aziraphale positively lights up from within, his smile almost cracking his face in half.

“Oh good! I’ll get to planning it immediately.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, well aware that Aziraphale can’t see it, but he still does it for his own benefit.

“Whatever you like, angel, just as long as I can drive there.”

. . .

They arrive at a little cottage tucked away just off the road, surrounded by tall trees and blooming shrubs. The sun is slowly setting behind them, the last of the golden rays painting the scene in yellows and reds and oranges.

Crowley steps out and leans against the Bentley, his elbows planted on the roof of the car and his chin supported in his hands.

Aziraphale gets out too and they stand for a second admiring the view. Crowley, admittedly, is looking at his companion more than the cottage.

The scenery is beautiful to be sure but Crowley’s seen similar views a thousand times over the span of his life.

Aziraphale, however, looks at it as if it’s the first idyllic little cottage bathed in dying sunbeams that he’s ever seen, and _that_ is a view worth savouring.

”Ready to go in, angel?” he asks softly.

Aziraphale snaps out of his reverie and turns to him, smiling, and oh, if Crowley didn't know better he'd think his corporeal form would melt in that warmth.

On Aziraphale’s insistence they carry their luggage inside without any miracled assistance. While Aziraphale unpacks the groceries they brought[6], Crowley goes back outside to tend to his beloved car.

He tucks it away safely in the garage and miracles a padlock or three that he fastens to the garage door.

Then he spends a few minutes quietly threatening the plants surrounding the garage and ensuring that they know how vital it is for his Bentley to be protected. He paints a very vivid picture of how he'll punish them if they dare let a stranger past them; threats that involve burning their other plant friends in front of them and then snapping their necks for good measure, among other things.

Satisfied with a job well done, he slinks back to the cottage. He finds Aziraphale in the kitchen, staring bemusedly at a box of pasta.

When he hears Crowley enter he turns around and smiles. ”Did it go well?”

Crowley hums and leans against the counter next to his friend, long legs stretched out in front of him. ”Had a little chat with the vegetation. They’ll think twice before letting anyone step on them to get to my darling now.”

Aziraphale tuts, more fond than anything, and turns back to his predicament.

”May I ask what you are doing, angel?” He asks, peering at the box for a clue.

Aziraphale sighs. ”I don’t know what to do for dinner. It turns out just bringing your favourite ingredients without a plan to bring them together is less than ideal.”

”There’s always-”

”I want to do it the right way,” Aziraphale pouts, then corrects himself with a brief glance skyward, ”The human way, I mean.”

”Well, there’s always cookbooks,” Crowley says.

”Indeed!” Aziraphale lights up and immediately starts looking through the little kitchen.

When his back is turned, Crowley miracles up a cookbook for beginners and pretends to find it behind a stack of magazines. ”Here’s one.”

Aziraphale comes over and takes it from him, turning it over with a frown. ”Well, I’m not a _beginner_ , I have cooked before after all. Is there nothing more suitable?”

Crowley shakes his head and puts on a pout. ”Unfortunately not but I’m sure this’ll do.”

”You think so?”

”I’m very sure of it, angel.”

He was, in fact, very sure of it because he had miracled every other cookbook out of the vicinity and he intended to stay closeby to counteract any possible little misstep his friend took on his journey to cooking them a decent meal.

He lounged around the kitchen, trying out different spots and positions as he watched Aziraphale painstakingly making his way through preparing a lasagna.

Aziraphale chopped onions, Crowley stood next to him willing the knife to miss Aziraphale’s clumsily placed fingers.

Aziraphale took his sweet time selecting spices and herbs from the herb rack, Crowley laid casually spread out on the kitchen island, safe in the knowledge that his angel couldn’t possibly hurt himself with some spices.

Aziraphale was muttering about not having any tomatoes, Crowley went out into the garden and miraculously found some perfectly ripe ones for his friend.

Aziraphale slid the lasagna into the oven, Crowley sat with his legs over the side of the kitchen island and took the opportunity to tempt his friend to some wine.

All the while Aziraphale was chatting happily and Crowley participated as well as he could in-between performing minor miracles to spare Aziraphale’s fingers from being cut off, or to stop him from burning himself, and a myriad of other mishaps that Crowley narrowly managed to avoid.

Once dinner was served and plated, Aziraphale was tired but happy with the tasty result, and Crowley was exhausted with fried nerves.

”See, it’s not so hard doing it the human way,” Aziraphale smiles as they clink glasses before starting in on dinner.

Crowley very graciously doesn’t say anything and just digs into the food.

He’s usually not as fond of food as his best friend, but he’ll eat socially, if only to have something to do in between sips of wine.

They chat and eat in silence intermittently and Crowley thinks to himself how awfully domestic this is.

He finds that he doesn’t mind at all. On the contrary, he’s always liked sitting down at the end of a long day with Aziraphale and a bottle of wine, and it turns out that only gets better when he also gets to spend the rest of his time with his dearest friend.

Aziraphale sighs in content and leans back in his chair. ”That was quite good, wouldn’t you agree?”

”Oh certainly,” Crowley says, recognizing the tone immediately and, since he’s feeling charitable, decides to indulge him. ”Very tasty. My compliments to the chef.”

Aziraphale blushes, the most splendid shade of pink, and Crowley can’t help but smile.

”Shall we move to the living room, angel?”

”Oh but I haven’t made dessert yet,” Aziraphale complains, casting longing glances at the ingredients to crème brûlée sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for him.

Crowley is a demon after all and he decidedly does not feel bad when he snaps his fingers to produce two finished desserts, and his heart absolutely does not clench when Aziraphale’s face falls slightly.

He does not feel bad, absolutely not, and it’s completely unrelated that he then adds, ”We’ll make it the right way tomorrow, angel, but for now can we please just go have a little rest?”

Aziraphale’s smile comes back, and Crowley’s heart incidentally relaxes again, and the angel snaps his own fingers to vanish the empty dishes before leading the way into the living room.

It’s a decent sized room, with a rather expensive-looking carpet under a beautiful oak table and a large couch accompanied by a lush armchair facing an open fireplace.

Crowley lights a fire in it with a glance and then turns to find Aziraphale smiling at him.

He looks at his friend over his glasses, a question in his eyes.

”Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale says almost shyly, and glances at him again with a faint smile before plopping down in the armchair next to the couch.

Crowley sprawls out on the couch, facing Aziraphale, and closes his eyes as his head hits the pillows stacked up behind him.

”Mmm, I could get used to this,” Crowley says around a moan. The couch is soft and welcoming under his tired bones and he is suddenly overwhelmed with a strange feeling.

It's warm and comfortable, sitting right under his skin and curling around his ribs.

Is this what happiness feels like?

He doesn’t have time to answer the question, which is possibly for the best since that question has implications he would much rather not examine today, because soon he feels a hand on his ankle, and he opens his eyes and tips his glasses down to see Aziraphale standing by the couch, looking at him for permission.

”Oh,” Crowley says and lifts his legs, intending to sit up and make room for his friend, but then Aziraphale sits down and gently but firmly places his feet back into his lap, his hand resting at Crowley’s ankle.

Well, this is new.

They sit, or lounge, in silence for a while; Aziraphale looking into the fireplace and humming to himself, Crowley looking at Aziraphale from behind the protective spheres of his glasses and wondering what the hell is happening.

Eventually Aziraphale’s thumb starts rubbing slow circles over the small patch of skin right where the cuff of his jeans stops and before his socks begin.

Crowley finds himself mesmerized by the movement and for quite some time they stay like this, Crowley’s eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s hands like a snake staring at its prey.

It’s… intimate, he decides eventually, in a way they haven’t really been before. And that scares him.

With no warning he slips his feet out of Aziraphale’s lap and sits up. He grabs the desserts off the table and shoves one of them at his friend without looking at him.

”Got a bit peckish,” he says in response to the unspoken question.

They eat their dessert next to each other without speaking, the only sound breaking the silence being the crackling of the fire.

Crowley finishes first and puts the plate back on the living room table with a weak cough. Aziraphale takes a few extra moments savouring his dessert.

Crowley spends those minutes staring blindly into the fire and wondering vaguely how to proceed from here.

Turns out he doesn’t have to make that decision, because soon Aziraphale puts away his own empty dish and settles back into the couch with a pleased noise.

Then his gaze lands on Crowley, who is twisted slightly to look at him, and before the demon’s reflexes have kicked in to make him look away, Aziraphale smiles at him.

It’s a disarming smile, to say the least. Almost immediately Crowley sinks back into the couch next to him and when Aziraphale reaches out to touch his cheek, Crowley leans into the touch.

This, too, is new. They’ve more or less followed humanity’s ever changing customs when it comes to how people touch each other and why. They’ve engaged in friendly handshakes, hugs, even kisses on the cheek in certain periods and certain areas. But they’ve never sat side by side, too close on a suddenly too small couch, gazing into each other’s eyes with one touching the other’s cheek.

It’s almost unbearably tender and Crowley feels himself getting sick with how excruciating it is to be the focus of those kind, loving eyes.

He tears his gaze away and looks down at his hands.

He hears Aziraphale make a little noise next to him but he doesn’t turn back to look at him. When Aziraphale drops his hand from Crowley’s face, he thinks it was inevitable.

Whatever Aziraphale is playing at, whatever… _feelings_ he may have, surely now he must have realized that they are misplaced with Crowley. A demon.

That’s all he’ll ever be.

But then his hand is at the back of Crowley’s neck, his palm grazing the little hairs there, and Crowley feels himself arching into the unexpected touch. Aziraphale’s other hand is on his knee and Crowley keeps staring at it, trying to decipher what all of this means. The alcohol in his blood isn’t helping at all.

“‘m tired,” he says eventually, because he can’t think of anything else to say that isn’t “I love you” or ”I don’t deserve you” or ”please never stop touching me like this”, or something equally embarrassing.

”That’s alright,” Aziraphale says gently, and pulls his hand away[7], but then he’s patting his knee and Crowley looks between him and his lap and then back again.

A guiding hand on his shoulder helps him lay down with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. He can’t help but think that this is also very new.

He hears Aziraphale snapping his fingers and a second later something heavy is gently draped over Crawley’s curled up form. He realizes it’s a blanket, just like the one he keeps in Aziraphale’s bookshop for particularly chilly winter nights.

Soon Aziraphale’s fingers find their way back into Crowley’s hair, carding through the locks and gently scraping his immaculately manicured nails down Crowley’s scalp.

If Crowley had been shameless he would have chased his hand, arched fully into his touch, but as it stands he just lays there and wills himself not to fall apart at the seams with every stitch that his angel unravels in him.

Another 30 minutes or so is spent like this. After a while Crowley hears the tell-tale sound of thin pages being turned and when he’s certain he’s not being watched he smiles into Aziraphale’s thigh.

Of course his friend had miracled a book into his free hand. He wasn’t very keen on sleeping and would much rather stay up reading, to Crowley’s bewilderment.

Crowley drifts in and out of sleep for a while, the room getting gradually darker each time he opens his eyes only to close them moments later and fall back into slumber.

The next time he wakes up his glasses are gone and the room is mainly dark except for the still crackling fire.

He stretches out his limbs a bit, nuzzles his cheek against the scratchy fabric under him.

Then he feels the fingers still carding through his hair and consciousness slams into him like a freight train.

He jumps up and almost falls off the couch as he does so.

“Careful, dear boy,” Aziraphale warns him, a warm and steadying hand on Crowley’s arm.

Crowley stares at him.

This is wrong. Right? It has to be wrong.

Right?

Aziraphale looks as calm as ever, his eyes glowing impossibly silver despite the warm glow from the fireplace.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

Crowley decides he’s acting ridiculously and if Aziraphale is okay with... whatever they’re doing, then why should he feel guilty?

”Fine,” he says, and then adds, ”Thanks.” because he knows Aziraphale will appreciate it. Before… everything that happened he would have suppressed the urge to please Aziraphale (you never know who’s watching, after all) but there’s no point in that anymore, is it? ”Good book?”

”Mm,” Aziraphale says. ”Decent enough. Say, would you like something to eat? Something to drink?”

Crowley shrugs. ”I never turn down more wine.”

Aziraphale smiles and for once Crowley is thankful for his dedication to doing things the human way, because while Aziraphale is out in the kitchen he closes his eyes and focuses on purging the rest of the alcohol from his bloodstream.

He needs to keep a clear mind or he might just fuck around and kiss Aziraphale right there on his pretty mouth.

He shakes himself.

Unacceptable. They may be _temporarily_ on their own side but who knows when they’ll be called in to fight each other again? He can’t afford to lo-

To feel like this. That, and Aziraphale most likely doesn’t feel the same, anyway.

Aziraphale returns and sits down next to him, perhaps a bit closer now than before but who’s counting?

Crowley, that’s who.

”Sorry, did you say something?”

”I asked if you are alright, dear,” Aziraphale repeats himself.

”Fine,” Crowley says shortly. To keep up pretences and not worry his angel, he adds, ”Long drives tend to take it out of me.”

They both know that’s not true but Aziraphale graciously doesn’t call him out on it.

”I have something to confess,” he says instead and Crowley involuntarily cringes. “Not the way some of the humans do it, in a booth and so on,” he clarifies quickly. “I just need to tell you something.”

“Out with it then,” Crowley says. He’s nursing his wine glass and not looking at Aziraphale.

“I had an ulterior motive bringing you here.”

Crowley’s head snaps up to look at him, an incredulous arch to his eyebrows. “An ulterior motive? Not very angelic of you, is it?”

“No.” Aziraphale smiles, a quick smile that is there one second and gone the next. Then he bites his lip. “No, I imagine not. You see… things are different now, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Crowley says slowly, desperately trying to piece together what the hell is going through his friend’s head.

“Yes,” Aziraphale echoes and now he’s the one avoiding eye contact. He pretends to fuss with the lapels of his jacket, because of course he’s still wearing his bloody jacket even though they’re in for the night. “We don’t need to be quite as careful spending time together, which I would say has been quite enjoyable, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It’s nice not having Hell breathing down my neck every time I pop over to snag some of your finest wine, yes,” Crowley says. The banter comes automatically even when his brain is elsewhere, namely on the way Aziraphale’s hand is splayed on the couch right next to Crowley’s thigh, close enough where they would touch if Aziraphale just extended his pinky ever so slightly.

His mouth feels dry all of a sudden.

“Precisely. Well, with all this free time on our hands, I have been thinking,” Aziraphale goes on. “About, ah, well. About us.”

If Crowley felt uncomfortable, cornered, terrified, like a desert had just taken residence inside his mouth before, now it feels like he might very well explode any second and blast his corporeal form to bits.

“Us?” he all but chokes out and Aziraphale has the gall to look concerned.

“Well, yes,” he says, again returning his attention to smoothing out his already perfectly laid lapels. “You see, we have known each other for… is it coming up on 6000 years now?”

Crowley doesn’t trust himself to speak so he just nods, attention glued to every word dripping off Aziraphale’s tongue.

“That’s an awfully long time, no? And we… are friends. Have been for a long time now, even when I couldn’t really say it.”

“I seem to remember you saying that you didn’t even like me not too long ago,” Crowley says, because he can't help himself.

Aziraphale meets his gaze then. “I didn’t mean that, Crowley, I do hope you know that.”

Crowley huffs. He does know that, deep down, but it doesn’t make the words hurt any less.

Being rejected by Aziraphale, well, he knows that feeling like the back of his hand. He’s been through it too many times to count and every time he promises himself he won’t try again, but he always does. He always comes back and suffers through it all over again, just for the possibility of maybe getting a yes one day.

“Dearest,” Aziraphale says in the softest voice. He reaches over and places his hand on top of Crowley’s where his fingertips are digging into his thigh.

The contact makes Crowley shiver and look up, up into silver eyes.

Excruciating, is what it is, to be looked upon with those eyes. Almost as if Aziraphale…

He can’t bear to finish the thought.

“You must know it was never about not liking you. It was all about the work, see? I couldn’t– _we_ couldn’t…” Aziraphale trails off, his voice on the brink of cracking.

Crowley swallows dryly. His hand is limp under Aziraphale’s touch and he has to stop looking at their hands because a second longer and he’d turn his hand over and twine their fingers together, and he fears his heart can’t come back from something like that if this isn’t… what he thinks it is. What he wants it to be.

“Couldn’t what?” he asks anyway, despite the fear making it hard to breathe.

It’s funny, that. He knows he doesn’t _need_ to breathe, being a demon and all, but as soon as the _ability_ to breathe is challenged, all reason goes out the window and he feels panic quickly overtaking him.

Aziraphale smiles, small and hesitant, and squeezes his hand. “Crowley, my darling, I suppose what I’m trying to say is that, well, I love you. Quite a lot, actually. And I have for… longer than I’d care to admit.”

Crowley just stares at him.

Is he having one of those things that humans get when they’re stressed, a panic something or other? Panic attack, is that what they call it? Is he hallucinating?

Is Aziraphale really here, next to him on the couch with his hand on Crowley’s, telling him that he loves him? Is that really happening or did Hell suddenly decide to take their revenge on him in some fresh take on emotional torture?

He shakes his head a little, disbelief dulling his senses.

“You.. what? For- for how long?” he manages.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Oh, well. You know. A couple of centuries.”

“Centuries?!”

“No need to raise your voice, dear,” Aziraphale gently scolds, but he’s still holding Crowley’s hand, as much as Crowley will allow him to, anyway.

“You… love me. You, the angel Aziraphale, love me, the demon Crowley. Did you hit your head? Did you get secretly discorporated somehow and some demon got hold of your human form?”

Aziraphale huffs. “That is nonsense and you know it. I’m merely telling you what I wanted to tell you for centuries but couldn’t because of, oh, you know,” he gestures between them a tad impatiently, “What with us being sworn enemies and all. Doesn’t make for a good foundation for love and companionship, does it?”

Crowley, again, just stares at him. Love and companionship?

Aziraphale indulges him for a good minute or two before his angelic patience wears thin and he throws his hands in the air, which regrettably means snatching his hand away from Crowley’s.

“Well say something, for Heaven’s sake,” he says, clearly frustrated.

Something about Aziraphale’s little outburst seems to bring Crowley back to his senses, because there it is. That spark. The spark that made him give away his sword all those centuries ago and that made him look at Crowley and see not just an enemy, but someone worth chatting with, smiling at. Maybe even someone worth loving.

Crowley reaches over and takes Aziraphale’s hand in his, squeezes it.

“Sorry,” he mutters, looking down at their hands. He sees Aziraphale squeeze back before he feels it and he smiles faintly. “It’s just a lot to take in. I always thought I made… my interest obvious, and when you didn’t say anything–” He gulps. “Well, I assumed it wasn’t reciprocated. That and all the, er, rejections over the years. Quite hard to just forget that in a second, you know.”

Aziraphale’s eyes soften and with his free hand he brushes away a stray strand of hair from Crowley’s forehead. Crowley revels in the small act of affection.

“I’m sorry too, dear. I never meant to make you believe I didn’t care deeply about you, because I do. But,” he sighs, “Politics and all that. I’m sorry to say I let it blind me for far too long and only when the shackles were off did I realize-” His breath hitches. “Well, what it kept me from.”

Crowley looks up at him. “And that is?”

“You, my dear. It kept me from realizing how much you mean to me and how far I would go to keep you safe.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale’s hand, the one not in a death grip between Crowley’s sweaty fingers, comes to rest at the nape of Crowley’s neck.

“Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?” Aziraphale asks quietly.

Crowley has enough wits about him to bark out a laugh. “Angel, please. That is only everything I’ve ever wanted for the past, I don’t know, six centuries or so.”

Aziraphale smiles then, big and bright, and Crowley isn’t sure if it’s an angelic miracle or if the world truly does get a little bit brighter the longer he wears that beautiful, radiant smile.

The hand on the back of his neck pulls him in and oh, Aziraphale is just as soft and supple against his lips as he always imagined, perhaps even more so.

He honestly and truly whimpers into the kiss, his free hand grappling for purchase and finally grabbing hold of Aziraphale’s coat lapels to steady himself.

Falling with a capital F was the single most traumatic event in his entire existence, both physically and emotionally. This on the other hand, allowing himself to fall in love with Aziraphale, to truly commit himself to it, was probably the most exciting, empowering and euphoric event to date.

He melts into the kiss and for a few seconds everything is right in the world as the two of them come together after centuries of longing, stolen glances and ‘what if’s.

Aziraphale holds him steady, his hand gently fisted in Crowley’s hair, as he kisses him again, and again, and again.

Crowley feels himself scooting closer, trying to get that angelic warmth even closer to him, and when Aziraphale, the cheeky bastard, slips him some tongue he moans right into the angel’s mouth. Who could have guessed Aziraphale, of all people, would be this smooth and suave?

Crowley, the demon that he is, is not a stranger to the physicality of human sexuality. Many a time has he tempted humans into the most scandalous of situations, but he’s rarely engaged in them himself.

And that is to say, he’s never engaged in them at all. He’s never been kissed, never had another body under his, never felt the burning _need_ to be as close as physically possible to another being.

He feels all of that now when he can feel Aziraphale smiling into the kiss and breaking Crowley’s hold on his hand to loop an arm around Crowley’s waist and haul him closer.

Aziraphale’s body is warm and soft yet steady against him, and Crowley allows himself the luxury of wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, deepening the kiss as he does so.

The angle is slightly awkward and after a while Crowley’s neck starts to hurt, so without easing his grip on his angel (because Crowley plans on kissing Aziraphale for a good century or so before letting him go again), he makes himself pull back from the kiss only long enough to throw his leg over Aziraphale’s lap and straddle him.

”Oh,” Aziraphale breathes out, looking up at Crowley in awe as he settles on his lap. Aziraphale’s arm tightens around Crowley’s waist and pulls him flush against his chest, much to Crowley’s enjoyment.

”This okay?” Crowley has the sense to ask in the space between kisses.

”Of course, dear,” Aziraphale assures him. ”But it’s sweet of you to ask.”

Crowley flinches ever so slightly but covers it up by sneaking a hand into Aziraphale’s hair and angling his head up for a kiss.

The angel complies, kissing him with every bit of enthusiasm as Crowley exhibits, but then he plants a final small kiss on his lips and moves to kiss down Crowley’s neck instead, his fingers expertly popping the buttons on Crowley’s shirt open. He automatically cranes his neck to give his friend better access.

And oh, how many times hasn’t he dreamed of this exact scenario? His fingers twirled around silky smooth locks, Aziraphale’s mouth warm and wet against him. His surprisingly strong arms holding him steady, his palm resting flat against the curve of Crowley’s ribs.

Crowley has no idea how long they stay like this, kissing and touching every inch of each other within reach, exchanging soft noises and small smiles as they go.

It’s safe to say they stay there for a good while at least, long enough for Crowley to experimentally roll his hips a little and be rewarded by a high pitched ” _oh_ ” from his angel, and definitely long enough for Aziraphale to return the favour along with kisses hot enough to burn.

Crowley never wants this to stop. He never wants to stop feeling Aziraphale’s hands on him; in his hair, on his thighs, his ribs, his neck. Every time Aziraphale finds a new part of his body to lavish with attention, Crowley thinks it doesn’t get better than this. But then he moves from kissing his bare collarbones to pressing a flat palm against the curve of Crowley’s ass and _that_ has to be the best thing he’s ever felt, and on it goes until Crowley’s whole body is burning with heavenly fire.

”Angel,” Crowley sighs, overwhelmed by emotions and sensations greater in scale than he’s ever experienced before.

”My dear,” Aziraphale whispers back.

He moves down to press small, sweet kisses into Crowley’s shoulder.

”So beautiful,” Aziraphale mumbles, and Crowley shudders in his arms. ”You’re gorgeous, my dear, the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.”

Crowley tries to let the words roll off him like water rolls off a- what was it water rolls off again? Geese? Swans? Fucking hell, why does he keep forgetting that stupid animal?

But instead they stick to him like oil to feathers and soon the oil starts to itch as its inky blackness sinks deeper into him, corrupting him from the inside out.

Aziraphale keeps whispering sweet nothings against him, except they’re not nothings at all, are they? Each word sets Crowley’s skin on fire and not in a good way.

”Angel, don’t say things like that,” Crowley says finally, when he feels like he can’t take it anymore.

Aziraphale leans back from where he’s pressing open mouthed kisses along Crowley’s neck and frowns. He cups Crowley’s cheek. ”Why ever not?”

”Just… don’t,” Crowley mumbles, not meeting his eyes. ”I don’t, er, deserve it.”

”Of course you do,” Aziraphale says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ”You are Her creation as much as anyone else and-”

”Except I’m not,” Crowley cuts him off. He can feel the romance of the moment cracking and shattering around him as he delves deeper into the darkness within himself. ”Am I? She cast me out, burned me, doomed me to spend the rest of existence as an outcast. We…” He gestures between them. ”You and I are not the same, angel, that’s just how it is.”

He’s sitting back on his heels now, needing a bit of space from the intoxicating feel of Aziraphale against him but not quite willing to get off his lap. His hands are resting against Aziraphale’s chest and if he strains hard enough he can hear the heartbeat beneath his palm.

”Nonsense,” Aziraphale says firmly. His bow tie is askew from Crowley’s eager hands and it makes Crowley’s heart clench. ”It’s not my place to… speculate on why you Fell but you are still worthy of love, my dear. Mine and Hers. I know that much.”

Crowley doesn’t answer that because he doesn’t want to put more of a damper on what had started out as such an incredible evening. Why did Aziraphale have to go and make things so complicated? Kissing was good, it was more than enough, but this… Crowley is suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to run away and sleep for another century or two, far away from this situation.

”Sweetheart,” Aziraphale whispers because he just can’t take a fucking hint, can he? ”I love you. You may be a demon but you’re so much more than that. You were an angel once and you still are, in some ways. You’re kind, compassionate, selfless when you want to be, and-”

Each word burns him like a white hot fire poker pressed to his skin.

Without a word he disentangles himself from Aziraphale and gets off his lap, already mourning the loss of closeness, but feeling too raw to be touched anymore.

He paces for a bit, his whole body thrumming with wants and needs and fears.

He walks over to the fireplace and stares into the fiery pits of it.

Reborn out of fire, he was. No longer an angel, hasn’t been for a while now. Of course he doesn’t deserve Aziraphale to be touching him like that, whispering such filth into his ear.

It's wrong. This thing between them, an angel... worshipping a demon, it can't be anything other than wrong. Even when it feels good, it has to be wrong.

And the fact that Aziraphale can’t see that sets his teeth on edge. He’s a clever person, the most clever person Crowley has ever known, so how can he possibly be this stupid?

He feels his nails digging into his palms as he tries to ground himself, try to shake off the-

Ducks! That’s what water rolls off of.

He almost laughs at the realization, an insane laugh in the midst of what he suspects might be the end to this little slice of heaven that he and Aziraphale have created together.

He hears Aziraphale getting up to follow him and he clenches his fists tighter at his sides.

Aziraphale comes up behind him and puts a warm hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley jolts, torn between the urge to escape and to have Aziraphale wrapped around him as tightly as a blanket you’d use to swaddle a baby.

“My dear, I’m ever so sorry if I upset you.”

Crowley snorts but can’t help but lean into his hand. Aziraphale has that effect on him: wanting to be close to him will always override Crowley’s insecurities. “Don’t worry about it. Just don’t do it again.”

There’s a pause and then Aziraphale grips his shoulder, gently but firmly, and turns Crowley to face him.

“I _am_ sorry to upset you and if it were anything else, I’d happily oblige you. But dearest, I can’t in good consciousness let you believe you aren’t worth being loved the way you deserve.”

“Don’t,” Crowley says weakly, but Aziraphale presses on without mercy.

“You’re resilient, Crowley, and brave and so very lovely. It would be wrong of me not to tell you that you’re the most-“

Something inside of Crowley snaps; suddenly, violently. A cord strung taut for too long that finally gives out with a _snap_.

He surges forward, grabs Aziraphale by his jacket and slams him into the wall behind him.

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he snarls. “Don’t you _dare_.”

His eyes are wild and unshielded by his glasses that lay discarded wherever Aziraphale put them while Crowley slept, his hair mussed up from where Aziraphale gripped it mere minutes ago, and with a painful twist in his stomach he thinks that this is his true nature.

He’s not made to sit idly on the couch with the man he loves, kissing and exchanging words sweet enough to ache. Love wasn’t designed to encompass demons, neither Her love nor human love. Definitely not angelic love.

They could pretend, of course, like they had all this time. Drink wine, laugh, flirt. Even kiss. But the truth beneath it all is that Crowley is irredeemably wrong while Aziraphale is right. Such is their nature.

Crowley is dangerous. Vile. Cruel. With the eyes of a snake to prove it, to never let him forget what he truly is.

And Aziraphale… a being of light, of love. An angel so good Heaven itself doesn’t deserve him.

There was never any hope for them. Crowley knows this, has known it deep down all along, and he hates that Aziraphale doesn’t see that.

“Do you see now, angel? Do you see what a monster you’ve foolishly let into your heart?” Crowley asks, low and dangerous, a cruel snarl twisting his mouth.

But Aziraphale doesn’t even flinch as his back hits the wall with a resounding crack, nor does he flinch at Crowley’s threats.

He stares unblinkingly into Crowley’s slitted eyes, a steady calm about him that drives Crowley up the walls even as they’re almost nose to nose. Why doesn’t he _get it_? Why isn’t he afraid?

Neither of them say anything at first, waiting for the other to break the silence.

When neither of them break Crowley growls and tries to pull away, but then Aziraphale’s fingers wrap around his wrist and keeps him in place, albeit with a few more inches between them now. The fabric of Aziraphale’s jacket is stiff in his hands and he’s still close enough to smell the intoxicating scent of his angel. He wonders if he’ll ever get to be this close again.

Still keeping him trapped with one hand, Aziraphale’s other hand moves up to cup Crowley’s cheek. His thumb caresses the high cheekbones, the curve of his mouth contorted into a snarl.

Crowley forbids himself to melt into the touch, no matter how tempting it is, and oh is it tempting. All these centuries fraternizing with the enemy must have rubbed off on Aziraphale because ironically he is the biggest temptation of them all.

“You do not frighten me, dear,” Aziraphale says with quiet conviction. “You are not a monster and I so wish that you would let me love you like you deserve to be loved. I want to take care of you and support you, just as you take care of and support me. I want to be your partner in everything, if you’ll let me.” He brushes Crowley’s unruly hair out of his face and smiles a little. “Please don’t turn me away, dear, I don’t think my heart could take it.”

To Crowley’s deep humiliation he can feel tears prick in the corners of his eyes as he stares back at Aziraphale, unflinching and unapologetic in his feelings.

This is a rare sight, after all, because Aziraphale doubts everything. He worries and frets and doubts everything.

Everything except, it seems, for his love for Crowley.

“Angel-“ He croaks, unsure of what to say.

Aziraphale seems to sense his change of heart because he smiles and takes Crowley’s hands in his, cradling them between their chests.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, and Crowley deflates with relief. “We can talk later. For now, I’m just happy you let me be here with you.”

It feels blasphemous for Aziraphale to thank Crowley for letting him in when it should be the other way around, but Crowley tries to breathe through his doubts and his insecurities. The scent of Aziraphale’s cologne and his unmistakable Aziraphaleness underneath it helps ground him, and soon the tension melts out of his shoulders and he lets Aziraphale gather him in his arms and hold him.

“‘m sssorry,” Crowley mumbles into Aziraphale’s shoulder. He slips a hand behind Aziraphale’s back, running a soothing hand up his spine. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Aziraphale laughs a little. “Oh, you could never.”

Crowley begins to argue but Aziraphale is right, of course. At least Crowley desperately hopes so.

He would never hurt Aziraphale. In fact, he would murder anyone who dared attempt to hurt him. Well, he would offer, because of course Aziraphale would never let him. But he’d be willing to do it and that’s the point.

Aziraphale sighs and pets Crowley’s hair before pulling away slightly. ”What would you say to an early night?”

Crowley’s eyebrows knit together. ”But you don’t sleep.”

”Oh, I have my books,” Aziraphale says lightly, clearly trying to lift the mood. ”And you look tired, darling. Who knows, maybe I’ll even attempt to sleep for a bit.”

The cottage only has one bedroom since Crowley is the only one of the pair to actually sleep on a regular basis, so naturally this puts them in a predicament.

Or rather, Crowley expected there to be an issue, but Aziraphale just leans in to kiss him and then he’s being led by the hand towards the bedroom.

Aziraphale miracles them both some appropriate pyjamas [8]  and slips into bed before Crowley can ask him what the sleeping arrangements are.

Crowley follows him with apprehension, just waiting for Aziraphale to stop him.

But he doesn’t, so Crowley lies down next to him at as modest a distance as the bed allows.

Aziraphale miracles his book from earlier into the bedroom and makes himself comfortable.

Then he glances at Crowley, who looks decidedly anywhere but at his friend and is laying very stiffly indeed on his back.

”It’s up to you, of course, but I think it might be a treat to indulge in some human intimacy,” Aziraphale breaks the silence.

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up and he turns his head to meet his gaze, his heart suddenly beating a bit faster, that traitorous fool. ”Intimacy?”

Aziraphale blushes. ”Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to that kind of intimacy either, if I’m being honest, but I was actually referring to the act of cuddling.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. ”I don’t do cuddling.” Then he adds as an afterthought, ”'s not very demonic.”

”I see,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can tell by the diplomatic tone of his voice that he’s humouring him. He can’t decide if he feels annoyed or just fond. ”Well, would it be demonic to take advantage of my body heat and use me as your personal human-shaped pillow?”

Crowley pretends to ponder this as he’s fighting back a smile. ”I sssuppose that would be sinissster enough.”

Aziraphale doesn’t bother hiding his smile as Crowley scoots closer and lets himself be wrapped up in Aziraphale’s arms, his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest.

As soon as he lays down, Crowley feels his body getting heavy with sleep. He never thought the presence of another person could relax him this much, especially after the very intense interaction they just had, but here he is, pressing his nose into the smooth fabric of Aziraphale’s cotton sleepwear and feeling sleep loom closer with every breath he takes.

”Love you,” he hears himself whisper as sleep pulls him under.

The last thing he feels before he succumbs to it is Aziraphale pressing a kiss to his hair and whispering, ”I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1Actually, the baby analogy falls short because there's a lot more shouting involved in raising the Bentley than Crowley imagines there being in raising a human baby, at least from the parent's side. Perhaps it's more accurate to say that he treats the Bentley like an unruly teenager; it's rebellious, needs a firm hand and will often disobey his direct orders just for the simple pleasure of making him angry. It drives him absolutely mad and he's threatened to take it to the chop shop dozens of times over the years, but he reluctantly suspects he would be entirely miserable without its nosey, stubborn and eccentric company.[return to text]
> 
> 2It's actually quite alarming how frequently this happens. Crowley has always joked that humanity will put him out of a job since its doing such a fine job of destroying itself even without his demonic guidance. Of course, this won't happen since he's always taking credit for humanity's hard work, but he still thinks they should back off and leave some of the work to the professionals.[return to text]
> 
> 3It all depends on the context though, doesn't it? Amongst angels, Aziraphale and his snark could potentially be labelled dark but amongst demons he would hardly be classified as anything above a lightish grey. But even that is questionable because unlike most angels Aziraphale actually took issue with the drowning of kids and such things that the Almighty deemed necessary back in the day, which to Crowley seems like something a good person would do. He refuses to comment on what this says about his own wickedness or lack thereof since he, too, had recoiled at the idea of kid murder.[return to text]
> 
> 4Aziraphale would never admit that, of course. “Hate is a strong word, my dear boy, and as an angel I certainly do not hate, no matter how inconvenient a human’s actions can be!” he would say whenever Crowley insisted on pointing it out, usually with a devilish grin. And it was a testament to their friendship that Crowley, most of the time, would let it slide despite knowing better.[return to text]
> 
> 5Private property was actually Crowley's invention, once upon a time. He'd invented it in a particularly dull century and had been quite surprised at the way humanity took the concept and ran with it. With the invention of slavery and the idea of ownership of humans, Crowley felt two things: pride, which he forced himself to feel as it is quite demonic, and shame, which he immediately repressed for being undemonic. But then again, if the Almighty could go around killing kids just to prove a point, why should he, a literal demon, be held to higher standards? He refused to feel guilty about his part in the monstrosity. Which of course meant he still did.[return to text]
> 
> 6Crowley had been firmly against it on the basis of none of them knowing how to cook. What were they going to do with all that food when they didn't know the first thing about preparing it? As far as he was concerned, they'd do just fine with miracled takeout and some decent wine. But Aziraphale had insisted and so Crowley had scowled and carried all the bags out to his car, mumbling curse words under his breath when he knew Aziraphale was within earshot.[return to text]
> 
> 7Crowley almost whines with the loss of contact. Almost. But the important thing is that he Doesn't.[return to text]
> 
> 8Well, appropriate according to Aziraphale, at any rate, which immediately excludes any sort of modern clothing and definitely does not include the pair of skimpy underwear that Crowley usually sleeps in.[return to text]


End file.
